Holding Out for a Hero
by LbyBrown
Summary: A short oneshot about the day Murdoc ran his car into 2D's keyboard shop.


There was a column of smoke rising from behind the checkout counter at the one-and-only keyboard shop in Crawley, England, coiling its way through white and black teeth set in red, black, green, yellow, every color of the rainbow, and finally melding into the thick cloud that loomed over the shop, produced by the cigarettes of the dozen or so customers, and the three employees. The place was high-tech for 1997, stocking the latest synthesizers -Moogs, Leslies, drum-machines, you name it, they had it. It also served as a hangout where stoners and musician wannabes attempted to pick up whale-tailed, over-made-up birds in ponytails who spoke haughtily in plastic posh accents.

The tower of nicotine-smog that was climbing up from floor was attached to nineteen-year-old Stuart Pot and his shock of azure-blue hair, who sat with his long legs drawn up to his chest, his pallid chin resting on knees, and a menthol fag propped between his middle and index fingers. He was shivering all over. He was troubled, that one. Earlier that morning, he had finally mustered the courage to tell his parents that he was gay. You can imagine how that went.

"YEW. YEW ARE NOTHIN' BUT A FUCKIN' DISGRACE TO US," David had bellowed, backhanding a yellow bowl of cereal off the table, smashed into the sink, and busted all over the light-wood floor, "DO YOU THIN' I'M GUNNA HAVE A FUCKIN' ABOMINATION AS A SON? DID YA REALLY THIN' THAT, STUART?"

"I JUS' THOUGH' ME OWN MUM AN' DAD WOULD HA' LOVED ME ENOUGH ANYWAYS, BU' I WAS WRONG," Stu had yelled back, standing up fast enough to knock his chair over sideways, clutching the table, leaning forward to look his father in the eye.

"YEW WERE DAMN RIGH' TO THIN' IT, NOW GE' THE BLOODY FUCK OU' O' MY HOUSE, AND DON' COME BACK TONIGH," David had screamed, inches away from his son's face, his face red, blue veins in his forhead popping, neck tendons straining against him skin.

Stu faltered, and when he did, he knew straight-up that he had lost the argument. He looked at his mother for moment, watching her weeping softly into her hands as his father glared at him. He swivelled back to his father. He looked him in the eyes, and gave him one last defiant glower. With one swift drop of his long limbs, he picked his bag off the floor at his feet. Three paces and a door slam later, he was on the street. The rage at having been rejected by his own parents fuming inside of him, he broke into a deadspeed run towards the shop, feeling the adrenaline pump through his body, setting fire to every nerve, burning him up from the inside out. His blue eyes were dark.

But by the time he got there, the rage had turned into defeat, and it hit him like a kick to the balls that he had nowhere to go that night. He was a loner, the kid who had no friends, even if he did know how to chat a girl up better than most. He had with him precisely seven cigarettes, £15 at best, a half-eaten pack of biscuits, and a _Night of the Living Dead_ keychain with him. He had walked into the somewhat warmer inside with his cheeks red, his hands and feet feeling dangerously close to frostbite, and without making himself noticed, slumped behind the desk, and had simply stayed there, trying to figure out what to do.

_I's nearly Chris'mas! Where the hell am I s'pposed to go? God, give me someone to go to, anybody!_Stuart pleaded, his eyes straining. He could already feel the migraine coming on. He didn't have his pills with him. Rebecca was standing above him ringing up a customer, and the stink of her perfume made him nauseous. He curled up even more, face between his knees. He felt her move from beside, and instantly felt relieved.

Until a bloody-murder screamed pierced through and rebounded off the tile walls. Stuart turned around hauling himself up, hands clutching the marble, he had his head halfway up before he heard someone shriek at him.

"_STUART, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY NOW_," and it took Stu's mind a moment before he realized that the most ugly-arse Vauxhall Astra he had ever seen charging through the glass, shards raining down, with its bumper aligned squarey with this forehead.


End file.
